essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ The moment Iorveth is in reach, Astarion helps him down the ladder before slinging one of Iorveth's arms around his shoulders again. The walk up this foreboding hall is slow-going, which just gives him more time to take it in. It smells like musty death, the same way Cazador's palace had. And, just like Cazador's palace, there's the strange sense that awful things have happened here.

His eyes flick away from specks of red on one of the doors. ]

Where did you say the antidote was, again?

[ Probably something he should have confirmed before bringing both of them down here. ]

[ "I didn't say", is the flutelike response. Great. Iorveth, trying not to put his entire weight along Astarion's side, is nevertheless aware of how his whole body feels like it's on fire, and how that heat must feel on Astarion's cool skin. Shame and anger claw through his brain again, but there's no point in losing composure when they're literally in the middle of enemy territory.

So. He bottles all of that rage to use against Alkam later. And perhaps to use against Damris, if he's stupid enough to try anything. Squinting his one eye against the slowly-brightening lights that line the musty hallway, Iorveth ventures: ]

We could just kill you and look for it ourselves.

[ A threat, just for the sake of it. The manor is huge, and he might kick it before they find the right room; worse, they might accidentally cross paths with Alkam before they're prepared to, and that would mean death for the both of them.

Damris knows it. He smiles again, still looking at Astarion instead of Iorveth.

"Don't be hasty. It's in my room－ just a few more minutes, and we'll be there."

(The tiefling has a room. He really must be Alkam's favorite, or he's lying through his teeth.) ]

[ It dawns on him that if everything doesn't go exactly to plan—a plan that's half-baked and ill-advised at best—then they're well and truly fucked. Look at him, risking life and limb for someone else. The Astarion of a year ago would have turned up his nose and laughed at how foolish he is, but that Astarion had no idea what it feels like to be loved.

Other people are still stupid for doing things like this, of course, but that's because they aren't doing them for Iorveth, the singular person in the world who matters. ]

Your own room, [ Astarion echoes, disbelieving and a little jealous. Suffice to say, he never got to inhabit the favored spawn bedchamber. In the end, he supposes, it would have been just another thing for Cazador to threaten to take away. Better that he didn't have anything at all.

On that note: ] Oh, good. If you wrong us, I'll make certain we share.

[ The worst punishment of all, being stuck in a room with Astarion for eternity. ]

[ Right. The reminder that Astarion might be around to harangue him forever seems to put a damper on Damris' spirits, but he presses forward anyway.

"No matter what, I'll be punished for bringing you two in without incapacitating you first. Master Alkam doesn't appreciate his spawn being clever."

Unnecessary ego from his servants, and unwanted risk. Two things a vampire lord never wants.

"So if you give me your word that you'll protect me, I'll let your friend live."

One last reinforcement, and Damris leads them up a short flight of stairs that lead to a less damp, less musty hall: somewhere along the edge of the estate, Iorveth assumes, away from the master's quarters. There's only one room here, and there's a door on the opposite end of the hall that must connect to a separate wing－ Damris beelines for the solitary room, and gestures for the pair to go inside.

Iorveth glances towards Astarion, brows furrowed. ]

I won't give him my word.

[ He says, hushed, for Astarion's pointy ears only. Always in the habit of never promising anything that he won't follow through on. Astarion can, however, deceive Damris in whatever way he wishes. ]

[ Astarion reaches up to stroke Iorveth's cheek with his thumb, affectionate and bittersweet. Iorveth, straightforward and honest to a fault. Again: a shit-talker until the very end. It's still one of the things Astarion loves most about him (despite sometimes finding it incredibly fucking irritating). Centuries with an equivocator like Cazador have made him grow tired of playing along with interpersonal games, and Iorveth always tells it exactly how it is.

All of that being said, he's all right with lying to Damris. ]

Of course, [ he calls, picking up the pace to urge Iorveth inside the room. ] I give you my word. If you knew me, you'd know that's, gods, practically sacrosanct.

[ It may just be because Iorveth feels lightheaded in general, but he swears he sees Damris roll his eyes as he walks into the room.

The room is... plain. Bare-boned, furnished only with the essentials of a bed, a bedside dresser, a wardrobe, a desk, and－ perhaps cruelly－ a mirror. Everything looks distinctly secondhand, if not thirdhand, and there's a pile of clothes in various states of wearability folded and sitting in a corner. The only thing that gives the place a little color is the alchemy set on the desk, as well-used as the furniture surrounding it.

Damris makes his way towards it, and pulls out one of the drawers to fish out a small syringe full of translucent, reddish fluid.

"I also want you to promise me one more thing," he says, as he holds the syringe behind his back. "If you're going to go after Master Alkam, I want you to render him unconscious. Don't kill him."

Huh. A strange request. Iorveth lifts a brow, having expected to be requested the opposite. ]

[ Astarion watches Damris warily, feeling very uncertain of that mysterious syringe of liquid. There could be anything in there, and it's rather difficult to trust someone who poisoned Iorveth in the first place. Maybe this has all been part of the plan, to lure Astarion back by affection for his companion and then murder them both, or worse.

His fingers curl into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, wrinkling it at the back and holding him in place. ]

--I'm sorry.

[ A humorless laugh. ]

I must be mistaken, because I thought I just heard you ask us to keep the evil vampire lord who's enslaved you alive.

[ Iorveth also takes note of the syringe, paranoid and wary but equally aware that if he doesn't do anything, he'll die. He feels just on the verge of tipping over into unconsciousness, conversations becoming harder and harder to follow― the world feels wrapped in layers of cushioning, hard to touch or grasp.

He doesn't want to worry Astarion more than he has, but his body slumps against Astarion's side. A little slacker, his breathing less even.

Meanwhile, Damris continues: "I'm tired of being a spawn." By way of explanation. His pretty face twists into an expression of grim determination. "If I can drink Master Alkam's blood..."

He trails off, apparently having used the last dregs of his courage to even insinuate such a thing. Iorveth scoffs― why would they agree to creating a replacement vampire lord?― but the tiefling seems not to notice.

"I want him alive, and I want a taste of your blood bank's blood. Say yes, and I'll give you the antidote."

Blood bank. Another scoff, which Damris does take note of this time around, and frowns. ]

[ Astarion gapes as if Damris has just asked to fuck Iorveth, not drink his blood. (At a certain point, the lines between the two actions become very blurred.) He grips Iorveth's shirt tighter, possessiveness and protectiveness swirling together to form a very new, very unpleasant feeling. ]

You must be fucking joking.

[ His voice drips animosity. As if it weren't bad enough that Damris is a spawn, he had to go and poison Iorveth, and then he had to start making demands. It's exactly the sort of thing Astarion would have done in his place. Gods, he fucking hates this man. ]

I've already promised you your freedom, [ he hisses, even though his promise meant little to nothing, ] and you're too stupid to just take it and run.

[ Iorveth's body, slumped against him, feels terribly hot. He realizes that the more time they spend arguing over this, the less time Iorveth has, and he stomps his foot with a frustrated exhale. ]

You said it yourself that there are plenty of other elves to drink from. This one's mine.

[ Give an inch, they'll take a league. Iorveth is beginning to see patterns in Damris' behavior, dictated, perhaps, by the vices of his Master. Primarily, driven by envy.

"Oh, I don't want him," Damris says, to the tune of oh, ew. "But he must taste good, if you're going through the trouble to keep him."

Iorveth feels those cold, red eyes settle over him. They're only similar to Astarion's in color; everything that makes Iorveth respond to Astarion's focus is missing entirely from Damris' dispassionate gaze. There's none of Astarion's keenness, his sharpness, his mischievousness.

It makes Iorveth sick, really. He feigns slumping further against his partner's side, and as he does so, whispers: ]

Let him think he'll get his way, then incapacitate him after he gives me the shot.

[ "I hate him, knock him the fuck out". Damris knits his brows again, noting the obvious back-and-forth happening between the two, but not having heard the actual contents of the whispering.

"So? Are you going to let him die, or are you going to agree?" ]

[ 'He must taste good'. What an idiot, to not know that Astarion would never drink a drop of Iorveth's blood again if it meant that he would live. Astarion doesn't want to incapacitate Damris — he wants to fucking throttle him. He bottles his rage, or at least attempts to; he still burns with it, and it's obvious in the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

Saying that this is something he'd allow, even deceitfully, feels like swallowing fetid rat's blood. Luckily, he has plenty of experience in gritting his teeth and swallowing things that make him want to retch, both literally and metaphorically. His molars grind together as he hisses through clenched teeth: ]

Give him the godsdamned antidote and you can do whatever you want.

[ No feeling of betrayal on Iorveth's part: he interprets "do whatever you want" as "what you want to do is not necessarily what you're going to do", which is what Iorveth might have said under his breath if he didn't feel like his lungs were on fire.

Compliance doesn't come easy to him, regardless. He makes his way onto the lone bed in the room with some ushering from Damris, and pulls the sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow for the tiefling to aim the sharp needle into the soft bend of his inner arm.

Rasped: ] If this kills me, [ because there really is no guarantee that it won't, ] we are acquainted with a skeleton with resurrection powers.

[ Without mentioning that he has no idea where Withers is currently, or if he indeed has the power to help Iorveth if he succumbed to poison; the point here is that he's threatening Damris with horrible consequences for stupid actions. As he does so, his free hand moves to wherever Astarion may be, asking for it to be held.

"So suspicious," Damris replies again, still breezy as he wastes no time sliding the needle under Iorveth's skin and pushing the liquid into his bloodstream. Cold, to counteract the fire of the poison－ it hurts, and Iorveth doubles over, gritting his teeth. ]

[ Astarion squeezes Iorveth's hand as the needle punctures his skin, and once he bends over in pain, he crouches in front of him, palms pressed to either side of Iorveth's too-warm face. ]

Darling.

[ He should be embarrassed at this display in front of Damris, but he isn't. It's all too scary: the thought of losing Iorveth, the sight of him in pain. He strokes Iorveth's cheeks with his thumbs, Damris suddenly no more than an irrelevant footnote. He's never been a comforting presence, but he tries for it now; Cazador would laugh at the attempt, but he doesn't care. ]

It's all right. The worst is over.

[ He... hopes. A pause, and he finally tears his gaze away from Iorveth—with great effort—to look at Damris instead. ]

How long until it works?

[ Iorveth could endure being strapped to a rack as long as it kept Astarion safe, honestly. The pain is overwhelming, like his insides are scraping itself against his bones to rake the poison out of his system, but he breathes and smiles through it anyway, wolfish.

I'm fine, he mouths, and presses his face into the welcome cradle of Astarion's palms. He can't see Damris from where his peripheral vision is cut off by the hands on him, but he doesn't care; he'd prefer it if he couldn't even hear the tiefling speak, but no dice.

"Only a few minutes. Master Alkam doesn't like to be kept waiting when I bring him his trophies."

Implying that Damris has done this before, and successfully. Cruelty displayed by a cruel tyrant's favorite, in order to keep his position of feeble, meaningless power. Iorveth wants to snap at Damris to develop a spine, but he also really doesn't care to improve Damris' life; he only cares about one vampire, and Astarion is it.

He relaxes. Nuzzles against Astarion's palm again, and privately feels relieved that Damris did not, in fact, poison him with something even worse than what he'd already been going through. ]

Better already.

Oh.

[ Astarion breathes a sigh of relief, tension that he hadn't even realized he had easing from his body. He smiles, wide and earnest, as he cards his fingers through Iorveth's hair. His precious, perfect man. Alive. Part of him wants to chain Iorveth to the bedposts so that he can never leave safety again. A whole new set of neuroses has been unlocked, but there will be plenty of time to stress about that later. ]

Good, [ he says as he stands, warmth seeping into his voice. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Iorveth's mouth before straightening up and swiveling around to face Damris once more. ]

That means there's nothing to lose once I kill you.

[ A couple long strides and he's practically nose-to-nose with the tiefling, pale hands wrapping around that elegant neck and squeezing. Poorly thought through, of course — his hands are not strong. All the same, it feels good to press down on Damris's windpipe, even if he doesn't actually need to breathe. ]

You wretch.

[ Gentle, gentle hands, soft lips, and then―

―a withdrawal, and an attack. Iorveth watches in a half-daze, the pain of poison and antidote still raging under his skin. Despite the fact that he knows he should chide Astarion for his timing (poor), he also knows that doing so would make him a hypocrite. Were their roles reversed, he would be doing the same.

Or, well. Maybe not the same same. Different tactics, certainly. Throttling is the least efficient way to kill someone, and he tries to rasp a short warning. ]

Astarion―!

[ 'Your dagger', he coughs, though Astarion might not be able to hear it under Damris's equally enraged snarling, his pretty face contorted in spiteful hate. It's evident that the choking is more painful to Damris than it is damaging, the usual physical compulsion to breathe overridden by an undead spawn's instinct to survive; grappling with Astarion, the tiefling raises his hand with the syringe still in it and attempts to blindly jab Astarion wherever he might be able to land a blow. His side is the easiest target.

(Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles for one of his own three knives, two of them being lightweight things more suitable for throwing than stabbing. Oh no this fucker won't, he thinks to himself.) ]

Edited 2025-05-16 13:55 (UTC)

[ Astarion actually laughs, disdainful, at the ridiculousness of being threatened with a needle. As a spawn, surely Damris knows that something so small couldn't possibly frighten him after all of the torture he's endured-- ]

Ow! [ The needle pierces through his sleeve and into his skin, and godsdammit, it does hurt. Astarion has tolerated endless pain, but he's never been good at it. His hands drop from Damris's throat out of surprise, and he growls, ] You little shit.

[ He scrambles for his dagger, unsheathing it and holding it to Damris's throat in one motion. Even held at knifepoint and snarling like a rabid beast, the tiefling is annoyingly good-looking. Why he was chosen, Astarion imagines. Looks open so many doors, and it's unlike a vampire lord not to try and open as many doors as he can. ]

Beg me to spare your worthless life, [ he says, tip of his dagger pressing against the soft skin of the tiefling's throat. ] --No. Better yet, beg him.

[ Iorveth doesn't like the sound of that ow, and stumbles over on pin-and-needle-riddled legs toward Astarion's side, his own knife drawn. It's a blessing that the needle only made it into a forearm and not, say, Astarion's face; not because Iorveth cares about Astarion's appearance, but because Astarion cares.

More mad scrambling from Damris, pretty fingers trying to grab silver curls and tug, but it settles once he's threatened at daggerpoint and told to beg. His expression echoes what he'd said before back at the inn, that none of this is fair, and it only deepens when he's told to implore Iorveth for his mercy.

"...I did what you asked," he spits. Proud, his soft voice laced with venom. "I spared your life. Now spare mine."

Craning backwards away from the sharp object held to a very vulnerable space, Damris closes his eyes. Iorveth doesn't particularly care about being pleaded with, but again, Astarion does, so as he slinks by Astarion's side: ]

My love would find your begging inadequate.

[ Translation: you can do better than that. Damris scowls, showing teeth, and spits out an acerbic "please". ]

[ Another laugh, cruel and scornful. Even after all that time being softened by camaraderie, it's so easy to fall back into callousness. An unpleasant thing about himself that he chooses not to examine too closely. It's for love, he tells himself, so that means it's all right. ]

Oh, I know you can plead better than that.

[ Being a spawn means begging for your right to exist nearly every day, and Alkam wouldn't have given him his own room—a real privilege—if Damris weren't capable of some quality beseeching. Perhaps it's feeding an ugly side of himself to keep reliving this sort of thing with the roles reversed, but he can't help it; it feels too good to be on this side of the blade.

All the same, his eyes flick over to Iorveth. ]

What would you have done to him?

[ A better partner would perhaps make an attempt at diplomacy, or implore Astarion to be the better man. Not Iorveth. Iorveth has tried to be the better man, and got his eye gouged out and his people slaughtered for the trouble. He, too, might have died here if not for impossible circumstances that prevented it, and while Iorveth is grateful for being cured, he wouldn't have had to be if this fool didn't try to kidnap the love of his life.

So. No grace. He stands behind Astarion like a slightly rumpled, stone-faced wraith, and waits for Damrin's verdict. It's simple when it's offered to them, and Iorveth doesn't doubt that it's true.

"If I'd been able to take you instead of him, I would have left him alone. Master Alkam likes his tributes to be more... symmetrical.

Why do you care so much? Mortals exploit us, so we exploit them. He'll get tired of you eventually, too― better to drain them before they can think to harm us." ]

[ Damn. Linus would be heartbroken to hear Damris talk so poorly of mortals, but, well, he'd also be very confused at why his handsome tiefling friend is talking about mortals. It's the exact same way Astarion had operated for centuries. The same way he still does operate, sometimes. Treat everyone as if they have not only the potential but the desire to hurt him. A 'when', not an 'if'. ]

Ugh, have you nothing original to say? Honestly, you're just a pale [ —ha— ] imitation of me.

[ In no way intentionally, but he'll still accuse Damris of being a copycat anyhow. ]

Mmm. Perhaps we should just throw him in one of those cells we passed.

[ A genuine frisson of fear, when Astarion mentions the cells. Iorveth watches the tiefling shift gears and kaleidoscope from furious indignity to deep-rooted trauma, as if he can't bear the thought of being locked into one of those damp, dark rooms and be left there for uncertain periods of time.

"No! No. Please. I'll stay out of your way, as long as you don't put me down there."

Long fingers scrabble at Astarion's sleeve, imploring. Iorveth frowns, and flicks his gaze to the side, towards the desk and its drawers. ]

A taste of his own medicine, then?

[ If Iorveth remembers correctly, whatever he was dosed with would have been a sedative for the undead, not a poison. A part of him would still be more comfortable with killing someone who wishes Astarion harm (no loose ends), but more important than that is allowing Astarion to feel like he has control over their current, very chaotic situation.

A low breath, and Iorveth lists against Astarion's side again. Damris furrows his brows, clearly displeased by what he perceives, perhaps, to be audacity.

(Linus is nice, but Damris doubts that Linus would like him if he looked different. So many mortals have promised him things, and none of them have delivered.) ]

[ Words no one has ever thought before besides Astarion: Iorveth is too nice. If he had it his way, he'd throw Damris in one of those dark, dank cells and forget that he ever existed. Poisoning—or, well, sort of poisoning him—is practically child's play in comparison, but maybe it's the better option. He'd hate Iorveth to leave here with regrets about what they did, or worse, a changed opinion of Astarion. ]

Whatever you wish to happen to him will, my love.

[ This is so romantic. It'd practically count as a date if there weren't still a chance that they'll both die.

With a cant of his head, he says, ] Rifle through those drawers, will you? I would, but my hands are, ah, otherwise occupied.

[ Iorveth is too nice, Astarion thinks, and with reciprocal delusion, Iorveth thinks that Astarion has shown very significant growth of character for not having stabbed Damris outright. Proud of Astarion for what many (all) would perceive as basic human empathy, if that: poisoning someone isn't exactly a big moral choice.

Still, Iorveth finds it a more generous option (again, if the roles had been reversed, Damris would be a tiefling-shaped corpse on the floor right about now), and nods in assent. ]

Don't loosen your hold. He already did a number on your hair.

[ The biggest crime of all. While Iorveth turns to rifle through the various items tucked neatly in order in the desk's drawers, Damris, finally having snapped out of his stunned disbelief (are these weirdos... flirting in front of him???), starts to struggle weakly, attempting to knock his horns against the side of Astarion's head.

"There are lethal poisons in there! He might choose the wrong one!" ]

Gods— get those things away from me.

[ Astarion tilts his head from side to side, doing his best to avoid Damris's horns. As if it weren't bad enough that he messed up Astarion's beautiful hair! He presses the dagger a little harder against Damris's throat as a threat, a warning. 'Keep misbehaving and see what happens.'

Meanwhile, he throws another quick glance behind him at Iorveth, rummaging through the drawers as requested. ]

Mm. I'm sure it will be fine.

[ Gaze returning to Damris: ]

And if not, well. [ A shrug. ] No big loss, really.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject